<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Keeping Tabs by StripedScribe</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29331945">Keeping Tabs</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripedScribe/pseuds/StripedScribe'>StripedScribe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Febuwhump2021 [10]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Escape, Fights, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kidnapping, Psychological Torture, Rescue, Robots, Sensory Deprivation, Unconsciousness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:27:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,583</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29331945</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripedScribe/pseuds/StripedScribe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A fight gone wrong, ending with Iron Man downed from the sky. An EMP killing all the electrics in the area, shorting Hawkeye's aids, taking out Spider-man's AI. <br/>Daredevil, unpowered, no suit to help him, he would have been fine. Would have just sulked home uncaring of what had happened. <br/>Until he didn't get home. Until he was missing.</p><p>Febuwhump day 10 ["I'm Sorry, I Didn't Know"]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Matt Murdock &amp; Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, Matt Murdock &amp; Peter Parker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Febuwhump2021 [10]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“No, nononono Mr Stark, no, wake up, get up, please! Come on, FRIDAY, you there, can you open the suit up? Let me see his face, let me help him, FRIDAY, please.” He scratched at the face plate, trying to find a gap, anything, that would open the dead suit, let him see if his mentor was alive. “Karen, please! Please come back, help me, help me please. Fuck.” His phone was fried too, whatever had taken down the suit had shot out everything in the area, his suit had lost power, and so he’d been forced to abandon his mask, secret identity or not. At least the enemy, robot, things were all down, the last one to die sending out what he could only assume was a superpowered EMP, or something of that description, to get the suit down from that height. But the suit still wouldn’t open, and he was going to force Mr Stark to put some form of manual opening onto it once they got back, if there were bad guys about with weapons capable of shorting an arc reactor.</p><p>“Oh shit, hey, kid!” A waving arm grabbed his attention, reminding him he wasn’t alone, there were others here too. He started to shout back, before the other voice overlapped his. “I can’t hear, it’s fried my aids, do you know sign?” Clint was still shouting, even as they came face to face, and all Spider-Man could do was shake his head, wincing, before resuming his attempt at opening the suit.</p><p>“Kid, it’s not opening. We need to head back to the tower, get FRIDAY there to help us. Can you swing him there?” Spider-Man looked up before speaking, and crudely signing actions at the same time.</p><p>“Maybe?” He made a sort of unsure, seesaw action. “Probably him, but not you as well, sorry.” Pointing at the suit, he then made a thumbs up with a questioning face, then a plus sign, before pointing to Clint and doing a thumbs down.</p><p>“You can hopefully manage the suit, but definitely not me as well?” Peter nodded, a small grimace on his face, before Clint carried on talking. “Take him back, I’ll start to walk, smile sweetly at Happy to come grab me if he’s there. Unless you’ve got money for the subway?” He went to rifle through pockets, before stopping, a brief embarrassed flooding his face, before he focused again on his downed mentor.</p><p>“Go kid, I’ll catch you up.” Together they stood up the suit, before he swung up to the rooftops, the suit a heavy weight, webbed to his side, hoping the bulk of it was hiding his face. A quick glance back showed Clint picking up his abandoned mask, before walking the streets, hands clutched on his bow.</p><hr/><p>As Tony fell from the sky, Clint’s hearing aids shorted out, the pain causing him to drop to his knees. The world became muffled, and next to him, the aids sat sparking, taunting. Looking down, he saw the suit unmoving, the kid unmasked, crouched down, fighting to get into the metal.</p><p>He rappelled to the floor, shouting over to the kid, before they had a quick conversation, with rough sign and guessed lipreading. He admired the kid’s confidence in being able to carry the suit and swing back to the tower, even more once they’d struggled to even stand up the suit together. It was a comical sight, the much taller red and gold suit lashed to Spider-Man’s side, as he put an arm around it, and used the other to swing out a web, running and jumping into the air. They soon shot out of sight, over the rooftops and towards the tower. Looking around, he saw the kid’s mask abandoned, he wouldn’t want SHIELD’s clean up team to get their hands on that tech, even if they were supposedly all ‘good’ now.</p><p>Clint started the slow walk below them, whistling, even as he looked around hyperaware for any possible attackers, hating losing his hearing again. He hoped someone’s suit or comms managed to send off an SOS, a ride would be really helpful right now. And for Spider-Man too, to get Tony to the tower quicker, he couldn’t imagine them being able to swing too fast.</p><p>He wouldn’t have admitted it to the kid, but he was worried, that was a hell of a drop, with no protection. Spinal damage was fairly likely, or at least broken bones somewhere, concussions.</p><p>Thank the gods, or even thank Tony, that he had the med-team there, used to dealing with superpowered injuries. Spider-Man would need to be cornered to be checked over as per usual, although he was gifted with super healing, he still avoided medbays like a plague.</p><p>What Clint would give to have that, well, a lot of the team could do with that. He definitely ended up in the med bay far too often though, to the point he’d basically ended up assigned a permanent bed. Many a debriefing had been held clustered around there, occasionally someone else forced into the bed next to his.</p><p>Daredevil, true to character, had just left when all the fighting was over. He refused to use comms, or any form of electricity, so he would have been safe, and refused to attend any sort of debriefing after a fight. Sulked off home to tend to his wounds, to pop up a week or so later when Avenger’s business drifted onto his turf. But to not even check they were all okay, especially after a fall like that, screamed danger to Clint, screamed someone to be aware of, and watch.</p><p>He really wasn’t sure why the Spiderkid looked up to him so much, they teamed up a lot, sure, but he was dangerous. Far far too dangerous to be left, if this was anything to go by, perhaps all those rumours of him being a murderer were to be believed. Natasha was right, they should be keeping closer tabs on all these vigilante types, especially one who was quite happy to let people believe he was the devil reincarnated.</p><p>And stop him from trying to mentor the Spider, he didn’t need that sort of help, not when he had a whole team of Avengers looking to help train him. Fighting even, to be the ones to train him in certain things, even though he argued he wasn’t technically an Avenger, and wasn’t ready to be one yet. They’d get him that badge soon enough, but for now it seemed as though he’d just toe that line between neighbourhood hero and superhero.</p><hr/><p>If the suit had had power, Tony would have had a perfect view of the end of the fight. The final ‘boss’ robot collapsing to its knees, before a wave of power boomed from it. It was at this point, that his vision went, the suit freezing in place, plummeting to the ground. He had mere seconds in which to panic, and swear, a thousand thoughts running through his mind as he blindly fell, unconsciousness claiming him as he hit the ground.</p><p>If he was watching, and could remain airborne, he would have seen Clint’s hands reach up to his ears as he fell to the floor, throwing out his aids which started to spark. He would have planned on how to make them safer, upgraded them. He would have been proud watching Clint using his equipment, his tools, to quickly get down to his kid.</p><p>If he could have seen the spiderkid, he would have seen the speed in which he swung to where he was rapidly dropping. He could have seen, or heard the pure pain as he lost the voice of Karen in his ear, as FRIDAY cut out in his. Thankfully the webs didn’t need power, even if the suit did. At least the whole area was powerless, so no one could get his identity from him abandoning his mask like that.</p><p>If he’d been looking in Daredevil’s direction, he would have seen the man fall to the ground as the EMP went off. Hands clutched over his ears, before trying to move to the crash site.</p><p>As it was, the metal suit fell helplessly to the ground, as FRIDAY blinked out from existence, alongside his sight, his hearing, leaving him trapped in a metal coffin. He couldn’t tell how long it would be until he hit the ground, only that it would hurt, so much. He cursed whoever had created these robots, whoever had managed to create such a powerful shock to down the suit. All he could hope, is that someone caught him, but even as he fell, his brain supplied him with the improbability of that. Maybe he should have equipped it with the same sort of safety mechanisms as the kid’s suit, although would they still need power? He’d have to experi-</p><hr/><p>As usual, Matt’s fight had separated him from the group, only capable of taking on one or so at a time, compared to the three Avengers, who were decimating the robots. Metal limbs created a course for him to vault around, jumping onto and over the creatures, their low humming highlighting weak points, as he drove his clubs into their bodies.</p><p>He’d been fighting one of the smaller bots when they took the final one down, a screeching sound getting louder and louder as he was forced to the ground. He felt, rather than heard, the suit crash to the floor, and moved to try and get closer, to help, but the piercing scream continued, deafening him into darkness. Stumbling, he held onto the broken metal around him, crawling towards where he hoped his fellow fighters were.</p><p>Unconsciousness was welcomed when it hit him, a blanket from the pain, even as his mind flooded with panic. His unwilling body fell underneath one of the larger bots, a scratch clawing down his face joining the rest of his aching and abused body. Limp and unwilling, he was hidden from view from his team-mates, who left quickly, rushing back to the tower, looking after their own injured.</p><p>Later, a division of SHIELD, infiltrated by HYDRA, would come to collect the robots, and clean the scene. Originally eager for the parts to improve their own weapons, finding a downed devil was a much more exciting prize. Their leaders would be proud, they couldn’t begin to think what they could have planned.</p><p>Still unconscious, he didn’t make a noise as they dragged him to a car, dropping him into the trunk, tying his limbs and taping his mouth. The driver knew not to ask questions, and they drove in silence, just another car amongst thousands on the highway. Time was of the essence, it was obvious that for now the Avenger’s hadn’t realised he was missing, too occupied with the injuries of their leader. The Devil must have someone who cared for him though, who would notice him missing.</p><p>When they pulled him out of the trunk he started to come round, panic pushing through the fog, and he fought, trying to kick, to flail around, to scream and shout at them. But his actions and words were muffled, and they soon pinned him to the floor, immobilising him further. A sharp prick in his arm gave him more cause to panic, and soon cold fire raced through his blood, bringing the world to a startling clarity, and then dousing him back into sleep.</p><p>Hours later, and one Foggy Nelson was on the phone to Stark Tower. Seen the news, a clean up after an Avengers fight, no useable footage of what had actually happened. An eye-witness had seen Iron Man fall from the sky from blocks away, and there were reports elsewhere of Spider-Man carrying the suit back to the tower. But no signs of Daredevil or Hawkeye, who’d been reported there at the start, no news of if Stark was in the suit, was ever in the suit. It was clear something had gone very wrong.</p><p>When Matt hadn’t stumbled home, or stumbled to Claire’s, he panicked. Rang the burner, tried to at least, shrill beeping tell him it was off, or destroyed. He forced himself to wait, reasonable excuses turning into more worrying ones, and then started a ring around, checking with the other Defenders, if he’d found his way back to them.</p><p>Realising that he had no way to contact any of the Avengers, fighting with the automated systems of Stark Tower, to try and speak to someone real.</p><p>Convincing them he wasn’t a reporter, he was a friend of Daredevil’s, questioning was he in the tower, was he injured.</p><p>Getting passed through people and people, feeling like he was getting closer, but still with no real clue. Ending up somehow speaking to Stark’s head of security, who thankfully recognised his name and his links to Daredevil, and dealt him the awful news.</p><p>“He didn’t come back with them. Hang on, I’ll ask Cli-Hawkeye.” He was put on hold, awful elevator music, before Hogan came back.</p><p>“Yeah, they didn’t see him, he made his own way home.”</p><p>“He hasn’t. He hasn’t come home.”</p><p>“Are you sure?”</p><p>“I’m stood in his apartment right now, he’s not here. He’s not with his nurse, he’s not with any of the Defenders. He doesn’t patrol in the daytime, he told me he was helping out with your guys because it was in his area, and an extra person would help. He would have come straight home. Should have come straight home. Did they see him leave?”</p><p>“Nelson, look, come here. Stark’s out of action, but Spiderman and Hawkeye are here. Save this rag tag of a conversation. And if he’s got himself lost, we’ll have more supplies to find him.”</p><p>“We’ll be there.” He hung up, anger at the Avengers, for just walking away. “If he’s got himself lost. You mean if you left him injured at the the fight, SHIELD’s there cleaning up, who knows what’s happened. If he’s been dragged off to one of their facilities, if someone else has got their hands on him.”</p><p>Regretting everything that had led him to this moment, he made a group chat. Adding Jess, Luke, Danny, Claire. And at a second guess, Castle, knowing more hands would make lighter work.</p><p>
  <em>`So, re our mutual friend. The Avengers managed to lose him after that fight with the murder-bots. I’m going down there to see if I can find anything. His phones gone, couldn’t even track that even if we had the tech. If anyone’s free, I’d appreciate the help before Stark’s lot stick their noses in and it all goes messy.`</em>
</p><p>Pocketing the phone, he shoved some of Matt’s clothes into a bag, just in case, in hope that they would actually find him. It would be easier to drag Matt back than the Devil.</p><p>He almost called a taxi, before realising it would make more sense to walk there, check the back alleys on the way, for any sign of an unconscious devil. The evening was starting to get colder, and he was glad for his coat, trying to work out how long it had been since the fight, how long since Matt had called him, warning he was rushing off to help the Avengers out.</p><p>Wishing he’d told him to just leave it, that they could manage. It was clear they didn’t think him part of the team, to not check on him after an ending like that.</p><p>He needed to speak to one of them again, find out what happened. He sighed, ringing the private number Hogan had given him.</p><p>“Can I speak to one of them? We’re going to check the site. I know your lot are there, they might have seen something, or he might have made it to an alley nearby. But I need to know what happened.”</p><p>‘I’ll give you to Hawkeye, Spidey’s occupied.’ In the background, he could vaguely hear a shout, something about a dog, and then the phone was passed over.</p><p>‘Barton here. Who’s this?’</p><p>“I’m a friend of Daredevil’s, he didn’t make it home after that fight this morning. What happened?”</p><p>‘Shit, wait what? I thought he’d just slunk off in his usual fashion. Happy you didn’t say DD was missing.’ The last part directed at someone in the room, Hogan Foggy assumed.</p><p>“Yeah, no sign of him. What happened? I know Iron Man got taken down, some sort of weapon?”</p><p>‘This is probably confidential, and we’ve not jumped through any of the paperwork. Hang on let me get out of Happy’s earshot before he drags you in for signatures and NDAs.’ The clatter of metal, words becoming more echoey, as though he’d gone into a smaller room. ‘It was some sort of EMP, it took out both of Spidey’s and Stark’s suits, shorted my hearing aids, destroyed all of our tech.’</p><p>“I couldn’t get through to his phone.”</p><p>‘Yeah, I assumed he’d be fine as he’s so against tech? It can’t have been that, if he is injured?’</p><p>“EMP, that’s like a pulse right?”</p><p>‘Yeah. Killed all the electricity in the area.’</p><p>“He’s got enhanced senses. I don’t know about how that would work with an EMP, but I have a worrying feeling that as he can hear everything else, he could probably hear, or sense that.”</p><p>‘Shit. Shit I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I should have looked, I should have checked.’ A clatter in the background again, fast movement. ‘I’m on my way to the site now, what can I do?’</p><p>“I’m almost there, I’ve got the rest of our lot on the way hopefully. We’re going to hope to find him, work out what happened. I’ll update them now we know what’s injured him.”</p><hr/><p><em>`Working on the assumption he’s been injured by an EMP. Claire any ideas on what that would do to him?</em> <em>`</em></p><hr/><p>The search showed them nothing. No sign of Daredevil, the clean up crew having nothing either.</p><p>He was gone.</p><p>They scoured the local alleys, looking for clues, for signs. Clint calling back to the Tower, to see if there was any tech they could use, the AI starting her own search, through cameras, through the web.</p><p>Nothing. The downed electrics had given a perfect escape for whoever had surely taken him. Claire and the remaining defenders’ predictions of an EMP being enough to knock him out, or at least deafen him, leaving him easy picking for an enemy.</p><p>And they’d just left him. The Avengers, who were supposed to be a team, hadn’t checked on the fourth person fighting with them hadn’t even cared.</p><p>It was enough to make anyone want to fight them.</p><p>Enough to make anyone want to kill them. With their pleas of “I didn’t know, I’m sorry.” “Mr Stark was injured.” False promises and helping out of guilt.</p><p>Matt was injured. And now he’s gone. And none of them had any idea where.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>We find out what happened to Matt, and how he escapes</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy birthday mpacifico35!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Memories. Snippets of the fight, bizarre robots powered by electricity. Someone killing the final one and a wave of power flooding the area.</p><p>Throwing out his hearing, losing his radar sense.</p><p>Stumbling towards where he thought the rest of the team was. Not knowing what their injuries would have been, what would have happened.</p><p>Pain.</p><p>Catching himself on metal as he sank to the ground, unconsciousness claiming him.</p><p>The last hope, that the Avengers would take him to the medbay, honour his wishes to not have his mask removed.</p><p>Waking up with his limbs tied, tape over his mouth, trying to fight. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t allies. The cowl thankfully still on, his brief thought through a fight before the cold rush of drugs in his arm.  </p><p>He woke up again alone. Worse than alone, he couldn’t hear anything besides the thudding of his own heart.</p><p>He was out of the suit. He was out of the suit. No mask. Identity revealed. Wearing just a shirt and shorts. They’d changed him, cleaned the wound on his face and it was no longer bleeding. What else could they have done?</p><p>He didn’t have his mask.</p><p>No.</p><p>He was laying on the floor, padded carpet around him. He couldn’t work out how large the room was. Any attempts to echo-locate failing him.</p><p>Finding his way to his feet, he picked a direction, quickly coming to a wall covered in what felt like foam spikes.</p><p>Soundproofed. The thumping of his heart sped up, echoing in his ears. Sensory deprivation. Unable to hear anything but himself.</p><p>He needed to escape. Before it drove him to madness, or before they did anything else. Whoever had him. Someone who’d been scouting out the fight, to grab him before the Avengers could. The creator of the robots? He couldn’t even remember if they knew who that was. Or whoever was responsible nowadays for cleaning up the mess, Stark Industries, or SHIELD, or someone else.</p><p>What did they even want with him?</p><p>Was he just a prisoner? A hostage? Or worse, held for torture or for experimentation? He needed to know.</p><p>He felt his way around the room, noting how small it was, and how there seemed to be no entrance. A ceiling too tall for him to reach, no feel of seams or anything in the walls or floor.</p><p>Nothing in here for him to be able to use to escape.</p><p>They’d come and gloat soon, surely. Come and lord over him, with the fact they had him captured. It was the logic of any villain, to flaunt their skills and success. He just had to wait.</p><p>And wait.</p><p>And wait.</p><p>It felt like hours, days, but he had no way of knowing. Long enough for him to start feeling dehydrated, and then as though the walls were shrinking around him.</p><p>Pushing him further and further down, until he ended up sat in the corner of the room, pressing his back against the wall just to be able to feel something. Running a clawed hand over his arm, the scratch of nails a comforting pressure in the emptiness. He was alive, he could escape. He was Daredevil.</p><p>He tried again, to find an entrance, an exit, something that could move in the misshapen walls.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>What felt like hours later, something in the wall moved, the briefest of open space, a pinpoint for the world outside. He ignore the food shoved through it, instead trying to break away the door, the sound of the world outside echoing in his mind. People, the hum of electricity, movement.</p><p>There had to be a way out. And then a fight, and then freedom.</p><p>Three simple steps. Escape this room. Escape the building. Find a way home.</p><p>Escape the room. Scratch at the wall until his hands bled, and still nothing moved. All his focus on that small strip of wall he knew had moved, had swung open big enough for a tray of food to come in. He couldn’t fit through that gap, but if he could open it, loosen the door they must have brought him through.</p><p>It was the only hope he had. Only chance of escape.</p><p>But it wouldn’t open.</p>
<hr/><p>The food was bland and tasteless, the water the same. The only thing worth his notice was the smell of blood on his hands, sticky and drying from his wasted attempts at escape.</p><p>It was hopeless. The only sound his own body, internal movements echoing into his ears.</p><p>They had to announce themselves soon. Or move him, a chance to escape if they changed up the torture, or something. Surely. An awful waiting game with nothing on the end.</p><p>Someone would have to notice him missing soon. The Avengers possibly even already looking for him, Foggy would have realised he never came home after the battle. Hopefully. Unless they were all injured as well.</p><p>What if they had Foggy?</p><p>They had his identity by now,  unmasked and out of the suit. It would be easy to find his name. Easy to tell the world who he was, to find out who he held closest and hurt them as well. Hold him for ransom against them, after money or more.</p><p>If the Avengers were involved, Stark would just pay what they needed, surely?</p>
<hr/><p>Time passed.</p><p>He couldn’t tell how long it had been.</p><p>Another meal was shoved in, and he had no warning for the door opening, the quick movement before the outside disappeared again. Not true sensory deprivation, but in some ways worse, that reminder that there was a world out there, people and life.</p><p>It was barely enough to sustain him. Plain bread, a small glass of water, simple food he quickly ate and drank, ignoring the unusual tastes over his own thirst.  </p>
<hr/><p>When he awoke, his hands had been cleaned. Any hint of blood removed. He thought he was still in the same room, the same size, the same spokes on the walls. The trays removed from his previous meals. They’d drugged him. Why? What had they done to him?</p><p>That should have been his chance for escape. A door opened for people to get in, or to take him out, he should have been awake. He couldn’t trust what they gave him. Whoever these people were, he should have tasted the drugs, refused it, not given into his human needs.</p><p>He had noticed the taste though. He could remember it, recognise it if they gave him more, refuse it.</p><p>It was a waiting game again. No use in scrabbling against the wall, comply to the torture instead. Pretend to be broken.</p><p>Inside his mind, he chanted everything he knew to be real. His plan. Escape the room. Escape the building. Get home. Three steps to success. Three steps to Foggy and home.</p><p>He knew how to be patient. How to sit crosslegged in the corner of the room, to try and meditate and pretend the silence was on purpose, was useful. To have his own thoughts, to not speak and let them know anything important, but to reassure himself of the truth.</p><p>That Foggy was looking for him. That someone was looking for him, to save him if he couldn’t get out.</p><p>That it had been at least a day since he’d been captured, guessing by the two meals and the stretches of unconsciousness. Maybe more.</p><p>Probably more. The scratch on his face had started to scab over, the itchiness of healing.</p><p>The fight, he’d heard something heavy fall, the final robot, wiping out his hearing with some sort of wave, a scream of pain. And then felt something else, smaller, hitting the ground. Iron Man.</p><p>If it was something that had killed electronics, they’d have all been ruined. Iron Man taken out, no knowing what injuries he could sustain from a fall of that height. The buzz of Hawkeye’s hearing aids silenced. Spider-Man’s AI in his suit taken out, and whatever other electronics he had in there. No phones to call for backup, no help, no reinforcements to call. It was no wonder they’d missed him, too distracted in their own problems to worry about his. He wasn’t an Avenger, they’d always look after their own first.  </p><p>They’d moved him, he remembered being pulled out of a trunk, the feel of tape over his mouth, limbs tied together. The thrashing, hopeless fight, before they drugged him.</p><p>And then waking up in this room. He had nothing to tell him where he was, how far he’d been taken. He could be in Hell’s Kitchen still, or he could be miles away. Driven to a destination he’d never be found in.</p><p>He had to be his own escape.</p>
<hr/><p>Another unknown length of time, and the door opened again. He lunged, but they were too quick, closing it out of his reach. A slice of bread, a glass of water, at least they were trying to keep him alive. Or kill him kindly, with this false promise of survival.</p><p>Water tainted again with that metallic chemical. The one he should have noticed before, not ignored in favour of his pathetic human needs.</p><p>What he could ignore now, pretending to take slow sips, letting it run down and soak into his clothes. He still couldn’t hear or sense a camera, but they must have something to monitor him. To watch his slow slip into insanity.</p><p>He was tired enough that faking unconsciousness came easy. Giving in to his eyelids closing, sinking to the ground, what was left of the water spilling across the floor. The bread untouched, more difficult to fake.</p><p>He laid there for a while, letting his breathing even out, his limbs loose. For long enough that his back started to ache with the position he’d fallen in, a crick in his neck he needed to stretch. Pressure on his hip leaning against the hard floor, wanting nothing more than to turn, but he had been trained to ignore that pain. To pretend it didn’t exist. To wait, until they surely returned for whatever they’d drugged him to do. Opening the door, and giving him a chance to escape, to fight and flee. He’d have to be quick, to find the exit, to hope that he could get out, past everyone.</p><p>It was a risk he had to take. He knew nothing of the world or rooms outside of this box, no layouts, no numbers. But he had to get out. Out of this danger. Into safety. All he could do was wait.</p><p>To wait and ignore the pressure growing on his hip and arm. He’d been starved here long enough to lose weight, bone against skin against the floor.</p><p>Keep his eyes closed, relaxed as though unconscious. Convince these people he could be moved, that they could open the door. As few people as possible, fewer for him to fight in this state. Let the adrenaline build even as he lay there.</p><p>He had no warning for the door opening. Silent hinges letting in the world, a rush to work out what was what. Two people in the room, not fighters. Few outside, a corridor leading to other rooms with people in.</p><p>Find the exit.</p><p>A door opened, and through it birdsong, the noise of streets and cars. Outside, it must be daytime. He could get out. It wasn’t far. These people weren’t fighters, weren’t built with muscle, had no weapons.</p><p>As they starting to drag him, an arm looped around each of his, he leapt to fight, swift blows taking them down just enough for him to escape. Pushing them back into the room, and running to the fresh air, no people around to stop his path. It was easy, too easy for the length of time he’d been in there. He’d been too compliant, they can’t have seen him as a threat anymore.</p><p>Regardless of that, he was out, he was free. Running guided only by instincts, he found himself a distance away from the building he’d been held in, sat on a rooftop. Freezing in the little clothes he was wearing, it was daytime, but it wasn’t sunny enough to prevent the chill of the wind.</p><p>He needed more clothes. A coat, something to change into. They had to be looking for him, he had to change the way he looked. But he couldn’t risk seeing anyone.</p><p>There. A washing line. Freshly washed fabric, he’d have to. So he could carry on running, escape, get home. Get to safety. Clothes, a little big for him, but they would do. He needed shoes, the cut of gravel on his bare feet already making them ache and bleed.</p><p>He’d find some. He had to go, to get out of here. Pilfered and layered socks would do for his protection for now.</p><p>Keep moving.</p><p>He needed food.</p><p>Couldn’t stop.</p><p>Walking along the street, hood raised to cover his eyes. The mutters of sympathy from strangers, and then a hand on his arm.</p><p>“Are you okay? Can I help you?”</p><p>Danger. Danger danger danger. Run.</p><p>Out of breath, he stopped, panting, frantically listening to see if they’d followed him. To listen for people searching for him.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>He couldn’t stop though. Couldn’t stop, to stop would mean being captured.</p><p>Could only stop when he was home. With Foggy. Out of danger.</p><p>Still daylight. Still time for him to travel.</p><p>Straight line, carry on walking and running until he was home. Until he was safe.</p><p>Couldn’t ask for directions. He knew though. Letting his body lead, even with a voice in the back of his mind telling him he was wrong.</p><p>Too many people. He needed to get out of here. He needed help, but all these strangers were after him. Any one of them could be people looking for him, people trying to return him to that cell.</p><p>There. A radio. The chatter of communication.</p><p>“He can’t have gone far.” A female voice, a few blocks away. One he recognised. Must have been one of his captors. He needed to move. To hide. To escape.</p><p>He needed to rest.</p><p>But he kept walking. Stumbling steps forced through aching legs, a body screaming for water, for food. For warmth, as the sun started to set, but he carried on walking, there were still too many strangers around.</p><p>They were still on his tail.</p><p>“I had eyes on him, but he’s too quick. Lost him.” Good. He could outpace them, sneak through alleys and over walls. He had to lose them.</p><p>He rested, meditated, hidden under the lid of a dumpster. A chance to catch his breath, to listen out for his hunters. They seemed to have vanished, he’d lost them off his tail. He could get away. Get home. Get safe.</p><p>It was getting colder, and to stay still would mean freezing. He could carry on. Keep warm. Keep walking home. It couldn’t be that far?</p><p>He had to be going the right way. He hadn’t just picked a direction at random, his body had to know where they were going even if his mind wasn’t straight enough to put thought into it. Keep walking. Listen for the voices of trackers.</p><p>“He knows we’re trying to find him, he must do?”</p><p>“His partner said he could hear for blocks. He’ll have heard us. He’s trying to avoid us.”</p><p>“Why?” He couldn’t hear what they answered over the overwhelming panic rushing through his mind. They had Foggy. They had Foggy.</p><p>No.</p><p>They left.</p><p>He couldn’t hear them anymore.</p><p>What were they doing with Foggy? He needed to rescue him. Let himself be captured again, get inside. He turned around, walking in plain view where he’d hidden before, listening still for the sound of chatter, of radios and strangers.</p><p>But there was nothing. Just sleepy city streets, the last few people heading home before dark. The rumble of the subway under his feet, the occasional noise of a passing car. He should head back to where he escaped from, that would surely be where Foggy was as well. Captured.</p><p>Tortured, if their care for him mirrored what was done to Matt.</p><p>They couldn’t. Not to Foggy, he didn’t deserve that. He had to find him, escape with both of them.</p><p>Another stranger, begging outstretched hands as he limped up the road. Offers of pity covering up malicious intent, this wasn’t anyone he recognised. He ignored them.</p><p>He was only looking for Foggy now. That recognisable heartbeat, his voice. Listening into houses and buildings as he passed, for any sign of him.</p><p>The room. The cell. If he was in that, he’d never find him. He’d be bait, they wouldn’t do that to bait. Knowing his senses, knowing he’d be looking for him. They just had to not hurt him before he could arrive.</p><p>There. That heartbeat, a car slowing to a stop, a door being thrown open. Instintively he raised his hands into a defensive position, expecting attack.</p><p>But it was only Foggy. Stood there, unarmed, untouched. No sign of injuries, no sound of threats by the others in the car. This wasn’t right, and he just stood there metres away with an outstretched hand. The smell of salt in the air.</p><p>This couldn’t be Foggy, what else did they have in the car, what weapons did they have ready to take them both down? What lies had they told him to be able to stand there, unshackled, unrestrained. The other doors opened, and dimly he recognised the other occupants. Familiar.</p><p>The buzz of tiny electronics. Hawkeye? What, what was happening. And the female voice he’d heard before, it must be the Black Widow.</p><p>And Foggy.</p><p>“Fogs?” He was so tired and confused. “I thought, I thought they’d captured you.” He ached, bleeding and scratched feet, the weight pressing down on his shoulders at the thought of safety.</p><p>“We were too late. We found you, but you’d already escaped. I’m sorry Matt, I’m sorry, you’re safe, you’re fine, we’ve got you.” Matt staggered forward and fell into Foggy’s arms, head pressed to his chest, hearing that steady familiar beat. Safety, home. “Come on, I know, it’s okay, we’ll get you home.”</p><p>Sleep was finally claiming him, he barely registered being pushed into the backseat of the car, a seatbelt tightened over his lap. Foggy climbed in beside him, and they were driven back to the apartment, quiet conversation in the front seats. Odd words remembered, “revenge”, “torture”. Promises of having to ask him what had happened in there, a conversation he wasn’t ready to have. Better to feign sleep in the few moments it wasn’t genuine.</p><p>To be half supported, half carried into his own apartment, Foggy’s gently movements helping him to change into his own clothes. Fed and watered, encouraged into his own bed, and then reaching a hand out to ask Foggy to stay.</p><p>He drifted for hours, waking up each time to find Foggy sat beside him, or sleeping as well. The murmur of ever changing voices in the living area, the Defenders, members of the Avengers. Briefly remembering Claire checking on him, a hand on his forehead, a half hearted joke shared.</p><p>Later when he asked Foggy, he was told he’d slept for the good part of another day, little recollection of the arguments over eating, the persuasions to try and snack on something. The paranoia of being poisoned hard to shake off, over-analysing every flavour until it began to taste awful, knocking down every wall he’d built to make eating bearable.</p><p>An ever present blame game, apologies passed through whispers, changing to raised voices. Everyone blaming themselves, what they should have done better, trying to carry every ounce of guilt on their own shoulders.</p><p>“I’m fine. It’s okay.” The way his body was pressed against Foggy’s where they sat together proved that wrong, and the new-found hatred for silence. Wanting someone around constantly, the sound of their body and voice needed to ground him. To convince himself he wasn’t in that box anymore, that he was safe. Healing took time, in which the group that had captured him was taken down, dismantled from the inside out. Trying to heal the gaps left in a shattered SHIELD, to stitch together a team into something stronger.</p><p>Time to learn a lesson, for all of them, on checking on others. On the importance of keeping tabs in the battleground, and then past that. For rocky relationships to grow stronger, mismatched superheroes and vigilantes finding a better balance.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>